Page 73 of Ache for You (Slow Burn 3)
It could be my imagination, but something in his voice makes me think he knows I’ve already decided to say yes.
Well, he’s not the only one with a dastardly plan.
I knew this was gonna get ugly.
TWENTY-ONE
When I wake again, the angle of the light slanting through the windows high on the stone walls tells me it’s no longer morning. My headache is better, but my mouth still tastes rank, and I really have to pee.
I’d move but there’s a heavy arm thrown over me, pinning me in place.
Matteo and I are in the same position we were when I fell back to sleep, only now he’s asleep, too. His breathing is deep and even. He doesn’t snore, which makes me hate him even more.
One of these days I’ll discover what faults he has other than egomania and a tendency toward the theft of intellectual property.
I carefully grasp his wrist and begin to move it so I can get up.
“Forget it. You’re not sneaking off.” His voice is deep and scratchy with sleep. He tightens his arm around me.
“I have to go to the bathroom.”
A low noise of disagreement rumbles through his chest.
“Like . . . bad.”
He withdraws his arm, gives my waist a squeeze, then a gentle push. “If you’re not back in three minutes, I’m coming to look for you.”
“Irritating,” I mutter, and throw off the covers. I hop off the bed and head toward a door standing ajar on the other side of the room, hoping it’s the bathroom. I’m relieved to find that it is and quickly shut the door behind me.
I give myself a fright when I catch a glimpse of my face in the mirror. I’ve got puffy raccoon eyes and something perched on my head that looks like roadkill. I take care of business, then wash my hands and attempt to smooth down my hair. I splash cold water on my face and find a tube of toothpaste in a drawer. I refuse to use Matteo’s toothbrush, so I squeeze a blob onto my finger and do the best I can to smush it around in my mouth and get rid of some of the fur on my teeth.
When I’m done, I open the door to find Matteo standing in front of a big wooden armoire, removing a fresh white dress shirt from a hanger.
He’s naked from the waist up.
I freeze like one of those pointer dogs when it finds the dead bird its master shot down. My eyes bulge out of my head. I exhale a long, unsteady breath.
He’s so stunning I’m not sure I’ll be able to remain standing if I continue to look at him.
He’s art. Masculine, muscular, beautiful art. Those rippling muscles in his back. Those biceps, hard and meaty. That sleek, flat stomach.
That chiseled V leading down from his abs below the belt of his pants.
Crap. I think I just moaned out loud.
“You’re staring,” says Matteo, sounding amused. Slinging the shirt around his shoulders, he glances over at me. I want to look away as he slides one arm into the shirt, then the other, but I’m in pointer-dog mode and can’t move an inch.
In a fantastic display of intelligence, I say, “Nuh-uh.” And keep staring.
“Oh. My mistake.” He turns to face me, leaving the shirt unbuttoned.
It’s a gift. He’s giving me a gift, is what he’s doing. This might be the nicest present anyone has ever given me. Even his belly button is perfect. And my God! His chest! Michelangelo could’ve carved that chest!
My uterus slow claps, then faints.
After what could be several weeks, I manage to drag my gaze up from his magnificent body to his face. He’s biting his lower lip. His gorgeous blue eyes are bright with laughter.
Shit. “Not a word, Moretti, unless you want a black eye.”
